Trapped
by Virodeil
Summary: *Caught Is Caught Is Cuddled Series* – Every thousand years or so, planetary alignment brings winter to Jötunheim. During this time, the jötnar huddle deep underground for warmth. Loki, an aspiring young scholar who has just lost a bet against his brother, braves one of such times to fulfil the bargain. He gets trapped underground forever with the jötnar as the result… or is he?


Trapped  
By Rey

**Every thousand years or so, planetary alignment brings winter to Jötunheim. During this time, the jötnar huddle deep underground for warmth. Loki, an aspiring young scholar who has just lost a bet against his brother, braves one of such times to fulfil the bargain. He gets trapped underground forever with the frost giants as the result… or is he?**

Started on: 23rd September 2019 at 06:30 AM

Finished on: 29th September 2019 at 10:22 AM

Story tags: Sneaking Around, Injury, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Near Death Experiences, Jötunheimr | Jötunheim, Unexpected Family Relations, Loki Does What He Wants, Laufey (Marvel) Needs a Hug

Story notes:  
1. Inspired by the Darkening time in the story _Laufey's Mate_ by Icemaidenstory, with adjustments and differences. The biggest differences are: Here, Loki is Laufey's _child_, the Darkening lasts for _one Jötunheimi year_, and the jötnar identify themselves as belonging to _no particular gender_ – a "they."  
2. In this story, Loki is 900 years old; _almost_ 8 years old in human standard, if he were raised a jötun. But to the æsir, he is considered almost _13_ human-standard years old. Furthermore, the jötnar consider an equivalent of 8 years old as "still very young," like the standard of modern humans living in moderate comfort in big cities. Meanwhile, the æsir consider an equivalent of 13 years old as "nearly an adult," based on biological development and cultural pressure. And in Rey-verse, the jötnar are _not_ a people that adopts a warrior culture, unlike the æsir. So, folks, please keep this huge gap in mind when reading. Oh, and the italicised dialogues bracketed by single quotation marks are mental communication or thoughts. Thank you and enjoy the ride!

The Darkening. Winter. The cold season; different from the storm season. A "kraði," they say. Every millennium or so; a year long. Caused by intersecting orbits, between Jötunheim and another planet that is positioned closer to the sun that shines on that accursed solar system.

Ironic, that the land of ever-winter has winter time, just like any other planet in the universe. And, even more ironic, the _frost_ giants seem to _fear_ such time, if the information in this book – which claims to be a compendium of that monstrous race – is accurate. They even hide underground during that time! Maybe it is why their weapon is named the Casket of Ancient _Winters_?

I frown, flipping the pages of the thick tome absent-mindedly, as my thoughts wander – _yet again_. The aches and pains all over my body make it hard to concentrate on reading, let alone on thinking. Damn Thor and his careless strength. Damn me for falling into his goading to have a sparring match _in front of a huge audience_. Damn this topic I have stupidly chosen to read to distract myself.

But I have absorbed enough. Enough to ignite my curiosity, despite the subject of the book. Enough to occupy me for the next century, as implied in the terms of the wager Thor got me into: "If I win, you stop playing your tricks on me for a century. If you win, I shall consult you before every quest and do not go if you say I should not go, for the same amount of time."

My "tricks." My _seiðr_. The one that so often gets _him_ out of trouble. After _he_ gets us _into_ trouble.

And my seiðr is an innate part of me.

Well, if he does not wish _me_ to be here….

Come to think of it again, I can also use this chance to prove the cowardice of the jötnar once and for all. I shall survive their Darkening aboveground and document the phenomenon for Asgard's library!

I may even prove my worth in this way.

Thor might not scoff on my weakness again.

So, I calculate the time differences between Gladsheim and útgarð, then check the estimated calendar of the Darkening based on the information in the book – _The Children of Ýmir_ by Voðen Bestla-childe. Afterwards, I gather and pack up all my seiðr-working and healing tools, devises and ingredients, warmest clothes, and also writing paraphernalia and self-care supplies, from all over my quarters – oh, and various herbs, too, from Mother's gardens. The next step is raiding the palace supply storerooms for the heaviest furs and cloths and big pillows for a warm nest in my future stakeout shelter in that inhospitable realm. And then to the kitchens and pantries and cellars I go, to nick lots of spices and food and beverage, the latter two mostly spiced and all easy to prepare and consume, not to mention agreeable with my fussy stomach and palate. Everything is sent to and gathered in my bedroom, which I have long set protections on and forbidden the servants to come in, before queuing their way into my pocket dimension, accompanied by meticulous notes in my inventory journal. With a last look round my bedroom, then all over my quarters, I put on my thickest leather armour and strap on my blades and a few handy devises in their usual places, before layering my thickest winter outfit on top of them all. Returning my pilfered book to its place of pride in Father's highly restricted bookshelf in his study is the last thing I do, before I exit the palace in my visual disguise as a servant on a task. They are all things that are pretty easy to do today, Since the palace is abuzz with delegations from Vanaheim, Nidavellir and Alfheim, brokering for trade treaties with Asgard.

Fleetingly, I wish somebody would find out and stop me. Fleetingly, I wish I could not get out of stopping range so easily. Fleetingly, I wish I did not know how to travel to other realms in a discreet manner.

They remain fleeting thoughts.

Trail obfuscation using a messenger horse brings me to the outskirts of Gladsheim. Being seen "doing my task" by a few townsfolk there guarantees me an alibi in case of questions. Staggered teleportations, starting from within the safety and obscurity of the woods outside of town, secures me a roundabout way to the mountains. And the mountains, which are located _far away_ from that spot, holds one of the natural portals to Jötunheim. The same "trick" gets me close to the portal itself, but then I approach it on foot in a similar manner to confuse anyone who might cast a spell to reveal my trail, both magical and mundane.

I am not _at all_ prepared for the _severe_ change in environment once I step foot into Jötunheim, however, despite all the literal and figurative steps I have taken.

I have gathered a good amount of sweat beneath my winter outfit and leather armour, in all the exertion underneath the hot, bright sun shining on Asgard. But upon stepping past the portal, I am greeted – nay, _ambushed_ – by sharp, icy, whistling gusts of wind _that bear fleks of snow and ice with them_, raging in utter darkness. It causes the sweat that I have accumulated to turn into icy dampness on my skin almost instantaneously, stealing my body heat and worsening the chill and discomfort. And the winter paraphernalia and thick leather armour _combined_ indeed proves itself _unable_ to shield me from how _penetratingly cold_ the air is. Not to mention the bits of snow and ice that mercilessly batter at my already battered body _past all the thick layers_. _Worse_, with how disorientated and shocky I feel, I cannot do a Working or retrieve my supplies in time to ward against this severe weather.

Damn. I have _severely_ miscalculated the time differences… and maybe underestimated the Darkening as well… and now do not have anywhere to go….

Still, with teeth chattering and whole body shivering, I advance through the violent weather all the same, blindly – _in all senses of the word_. How will I ever find _possible_ shelter, otherwise? Or even a way home….

Somewhere in-between the heavy steps I keep swinging against the wall of stinging, freezing air, some time amidst my desperation and utter fear of dying a nobody in the land of monsters, something in me shifts, _painfully_. But what is such transient pain compared to all the throbbing aches I have accumulated thus far?

Well, come to think of it again, it is perhaps not _only_ a retorical question, and _also_ not to be underestimated. Because after that spike of agony, everything becomes… strange: more acute, more disorienting, more open, more vulnerable, more anchored, more lonely, _less_ cold and _less_ dark. And in a way, it is more painful than the residue of my sparring match with Thor and the battering from the icy, ice-laden wind _combined_.

My throat vibrates, but my ears can hear nothing out of it – whether a snarl, a scoff, a shout, or even a whimper. Only the relentless, ear-throbbing, head-aching whistling of the icy, icy wind. Always.

And then, my left boot hits a patch of sleek ice, and down I go, slipping, sprawling bonelessly on my belly.

I cannot get up again.

Apparently, the muscles in my legs have reached their limits, and those in my arms likewise, despite the fact that the latters have _not_ done anything until now in this icy wasteland. Scrambling only depletes my already low store of energy further, _without_ getting me back on my feet again, or even on my hands and knees.

In the end, I can only lie helplessly on the hard, icy, uneven, half jabby, half sleek ground, panting like an exhausted beast cornered by hunters, with my cheek pressed against a particularly sandpapery patch of ice.

Well, it seems that Thor will be rid of me _forever_, after all, not just for a century as the wager stipulates.

But what will Father think? _Mother_? I have not even told them good-bye….

Will Thor miss me after a century has passed and I have not come home? Will the frost giants return my body to my family? Or will they eat my carcass instead? Then again, with the wind being as vicious and relentless like this, will I even still have a body to boat, bury or devour at the end of the Darkening? Or will anything here recognise me as an Asgardian, as Loki son of Odin?

I do not want to be forgotten. I do not want to be gone without a trace.

Maybe, if I weave a death ward to preserve my body and transport it to Asgard after life leaves it…?

Well, no time like the present, then.

Laboriously, I draw my knees up to my chest, put my arms round them, and duck my head the best that I can into the hollow they create despite all the shakes and pains. It is useless as a way to preserve warmth, by now; but I do not do this to preserve whatever warmth is left in my body, anyhow.

No. As much as I would hate admitting to it even to myself, I do this for _comfort_.

If nobody can and will hold me, at least I can hold myself at the moment of my death.

Nine hundred years old. A century too young to participate marginally in a battle and possibly die honorably in it, although I have already _successfully_ led a company of warriors in a few war games. But hopefully Father and Mother _and Thor_ are proud that I die fighting the chill and exhaustion till the end.

Slowly, painstakingly, fighting distraction and loss of concentration all the while, I weave the death ward – the intent, the seiðr, the prerequisite, the direction, all in one – strand by strand all over my body.

Like a Midgardian spider weaving a silken cocoon round its prey.

Prey…. I will be prey to the weather soon. I cannot afford this slow pace if I wish to complete the death ward before I actually die and empower it.

I wish I could say good-bye to my family first. To Mother….

Damn. I must _not_ get side-tracked!

But if I can get Mother to hug me one last time….

Comfortably warm. Soft skin. Not so soft patch of gown pressing against my cheek. Pillowy chest. Slender arms. Soothing fingers in my hair. – Strong. Fragrant. Safe. Comforting. Unconditional. _Familiar_.

The strands of the death ward, half-finished, unravels as a powerful burst of outside seiðr totally ruins my concentration and the weave. I am too preoccupied with the signature of the blast, however, to mourn the lost chance to send my body back to Asgard.

Preoccupied, because it is _so familiar_, even more familiar than _Mother's_, and Mother taught me to harness my seiðr _right from the start_, including how to recognise her signature.

Well, and I am preoccupied with _the person who is suddenly hugging me tight_, as well. – Comfortably cool. Bare tough skin with odd bumps. Lean and hard chest. Lean and _huge_ arms. Strong but not crushing. Smelling like ice and damp stone and seiðr and a myriad of other things that I cannot name. Safely fierce. Fiercely safe. Unconditional. _Bone-deeply, heart-deeply familiar_.

And then, like fish dragged ashore by the triumphant fisher at the end of the hooked line, we are flung _through_ the wall of icy, noisy wind and flying debris, only to end up in a place that is _totally different_. As in: windless, much more silent, inside some place, and _warmer_. I do not know – cannot know – if the ground is icy or not, or uneven, or littered with odd patches of sleek and rough ice, because I land on my… assailant? Rescuer? Captor?

And they do not seem to be about to let go of me any time soon. Not only because they are now curled tightly round me, like a giant but lean cage. No. It is, somehow, also because they are emitting noises that I would imagine akin to a loyal animal that has just been fatally wounded by its own master.

Heart-twinging. Hair-rising. _Bewildering_.

And then all thoughts, all emotions, _all senses_ are swept away, by a tidal wave of _power_ which bears the same all-too-familiar signature that ambushed me outside. It drowns me, soaks me, cradles me, cleanses me, _accepts_ me, welcomes me, claims me, adores me, _binds_ itself with me, sets guard round me, _weeps with me_, names me: `_Loptr Laufey-childe._`

`_Who are you?_` my mind whispers timidly after what feels like an eternity, or maybe just a moment, despite what my heart and soul bear _and acknowledge_ in regard to the source of that power.

A barely controlled blast of impressions drowns me, as the answer. – A conflicted, complicated regard towards one's spouse from an arranged marriage. A pair of twins growing in one's womb; reluctantly accepted at firsst but certainly cherished afterwards. Constant exhaustion, worry and desperate protectiveness stemming from carrying a pair of twins while leading an unexpected, unexpectedly senseless war. A painful, premature birth in the lowliest, most unacceptable of places. Terrible loss of _both_ twins in two different ways. Maddened grief of a new mother bereft. Helpless, hopeless, desperate yearning for what will never be: a pair of little children squirming in delight in one's embrace and piping up sweetly for treats. Shock of an unexpected boon in a desperate time. Grief anew of the mostly alien being that used to be so intimately familiar. Determination to reacquaint oneself with a long-lost part that has been loved so desperately _and unconditionally_ in absentia for long centuries.

`_Laufey Bergelmir-childe,_` the barely coherent power declares at last, in a ragged whisper. `_Loptr and Loki's dam. Loptr's mother, Ýmir willing. Oh Ýmir, __**please**__._`

Laufey Bergelmir-childe.

King of Jötunheim.

Mother.

Oh, _Norns_!


End file.
